


The Spiritual Preparation of Edrehasivar VII

by Island_of_Reil



Series: The Continuing Education of Edrehasivar VII [2]
Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Anal Beads, Crack, Implied/Referenced Enemas, Improper Use of a Chalice, Improper Use of a Rosary, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Religion Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-02 04:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: “Cstheio Caireizhasan …” Maia gasped so loudly it echoed off the ancient stone walls. “… see me,” he finished weakly, gulping air.“Take your time, Serenity.” The small, warm palm of Thara Celehar’s left hand smoothed over the knobs of Maia’s spine as his right hand continued to pull the string of unusually large and ornately carved prayer beads, one by one, out of Maia’s body. “As you must do with your bride.”





	The Spiritual Preparation of Edrehasivar VII

“Cstheio Caireizhasan …” Maia gasped so loudly it echoed off the ancient stone walls. “… see me,” he finished weakly, gulping air.

“Take your time, Serenity.” The small, warm palm of Thara Celehar’s left hand smoothed over the knobs of Maia’s spine as his right hand continued to pull the string of unusually large and ornately carved prayer beads, one by one, out of Maia’s body. “As you must do with your bride.”

Maia wished he could simply nod his assent, but, doubled over the prayer bench as he was and with Mer Celehar kneeling behind him, the gesture would go unseen. He managed to croak, “Yes, Mer Celehar,” then resumed his mantra: “Cstheio Caireizhasan — _ah!_ — hear me.”

In sooth, he still could not believe this … exercise was … a thing, for want of a better word. But the Archprelate — who now stood but a few yards away in full robes and mask, murmuring prayers to Orshan under his breath as he oversaw Mer Celehar’s ministrations — had shown Maia the ancient holy scrolls depicting an emperor undergoing this ritual at the hands of a prelate, under the appraising eye of an archprelate. The illumination with its rich, saturated inks, the emperor’s gleaming bare skin in stark contrast to the clerics’ full vestments, had set Maia’s face aflame. “This spiritual preparation, Serenity,” the Archprelate had said in earnest, “will lead to bliss in your marriage-bed. A blissful empress is a fertile empress who will conceive and bear healthy heirs to the throne.”

It had begun with three canons who served as holy edocharei of sorts. Chanting the same entreaties to Orshan that the Archprelate made now, they had bathed Maia in hot, silken water scented with consecrated oils, then administered to him a clyster of same that his insides would be similarly cleansed. Neither his own edocharei nor Doctor Ushenar had ever done anything of the like to him, and the sheer humiliation of it had been shot through with shameful arousal from the sensations it roused deep inside him.

Yet both feelings had been as nothing compared with the humiliation and the arousal he felt now, naked but for the Dachen Mura and a keb hitched up to his waist, bent over in the Orshanomeire, the most private recess of his body on full display to two sanctified men — one of them the highest-ranked cleric in the entire Ethuveraz — and, perhaps even worse, to the icons of the gods on the rear wall. And, as if that were not enough, being stimulated over and over with every slide of a bead against the little knot of nerves buried deep within him, nearly to the point of the climax he had been sternly forbidden to achieve. His only consolation was that Cala Athmaza and Lieutenant Beshelar had been ordered to stand _outside_ the tightly shut door of the shrine.

“There is no shame in it, Serenity: since the founding of the empire, every emperor has undergone this ritual,” the Archprelate had assured him. As Mer Celehar pulled the next bead out, Maia sobbed in frustration and wondered if it would be worse or better if he imagined his father undergoing this preparation too.

“Shhh. All is well, Serenity. The gods smile upon your willingness to submit to this sacrament.” As he spoke, Mer Celehar continued to rub circles of reassurance over Maia’s back. The ritual had been underway only a short time before it had transformed the ugly, broken voice of the Witness for the Dead into a soothing rumble, like the purr of a large cat. And then, to Maia’s utter bewilderment, the rough texture of Mer Celehar’s voice had begun to rake his nerves pleasurably, just like the slipping of each bead from his hole.

“Cstheio Caireizhasan — _oh!_ — know me,” he whimpered. He was so hard, his crisis so imminent, as it had been for the last fifteen minutes. The Archprelate had instructed Mer Celehar to heed the tensing of Maia’s muscles, the relevant changes in his breathing, and if necessary constrict him manually about the root of his cock. But that had not been necessary: the idea of displeasing the Lady of the Stars, the Lord of the Night Sky, and the other gods his mother had taught him to revere was enough to keep him from shooting seed across the stone floor of the Cstheiomeire. He was grateful to have been given plush cushions to kneel upon, not only for the comfort but because he would have rather committed revethvoran than inadvertently soil their rich embroidery with his spunk.

“One more, Serenity, and then you may spend,” Mer Celehar promised, and the last of the beads popped out of Maia with an oleaginous finality. Out of the corner of his eye, Maia perceived something glittering in Mer Celehar’s right hand as it passed under the bench. _It is done,_ he thought with relief, and with a groan he gave himself over to his pleasure, all but collapsing upon the bench as all tension ebbed from his body.

“Very, very good, Serenity,” Mer Celehar said softly — had his voice become hoarser again, or was it just that Maia’s senses were returning to him? Heavy robes rustled as Mer Celehar rose to his feet, and with more force and more ceremony he declared: “Your Grace, here is the precious seed of our Zhas.”

The Archprelate intoned in his beautiful tenor: “O Orshan, patroness of the fields! His Serenity, Edrehasivar, seventh of that name, has proven himself ready and able for his marriage-bed. I devoutly pray thou dost bless his issue that he may father many strong and comely michen upon his gods-ordained bride, Dach’osmin Csethiro Ceredin.”

The door to the shrine creaked open, and Maia’s body jerked in the beginnings of panic. But Mer Celehar’s hand came to rest gently upon his bare shoulder. “Be at ease, Serenity; it is only the canons again. Two of them will attend to you, and the other will take the chalice away.” Maia subsided, wondered what precisely would be done with the contents of the chalice, and decided he was content to let this remain for him a sacred mystery.

“Canon Veca,” the Archprelate said, his voice remaining in a sacred register, “to thee I entrust His Serenity’s seed.”

“Your Grace,” came the obedient reply, followed by another creaking and then thud of the door.

“Canon Dezhava, Canon Huthar,” the Archprelate added in a more mundane tone, “please see to His Serenity’s needs. Thara and ourself will repair to a private shrine in our apartments, where we two will continue to contemplate Orshan’s beneficence and offer our prayers up to her.” There was an odd note of roughness in his voice, Maia thought, to match that in Mer Celehar’s.

“Your Grace, Mer Celehar — thank you both,” Maia said, his own voice rather hoarse in the aftermath of his climax.

“Serenity,” both of them said in unison — rather hastily, Maia thought, as hasty as the second thud of the shrine door behind them — as they left him to another round of ministrations at the canons’ gentle, thorough hands.


End file.
